


it was you i drank

by choppersupportsgirls (earlieststar)



Category: One Piece
Genre: Body Shots, Drinking, M/M, Party Shenanigans, Pining Portgas D. Ace, a lot more yearning than anything else tbh, their friends conspire to get marco to kiss ace, these pirates drink a lot, they are all drunk and well meaning, they barely even kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26946589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlieststar/pseuds/choppersupportsgirls
Summary: Someone else drops a shot’s worth of hard liquor - or at least what Ace assumes is hard liquor - on the dip of his trachea. He’s kind of starting to understand what ‘body shot’ means, what might be the appeal of it and all, and decides that he might as well paint the picture, since he’s already there.
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Portgas D. Ace
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	it was you i drank

**Author's Note:**

> this has been a wip for so long and its Time for it to be released upon the world, for better or for worse  
> i wrote and edited this while mostly sleep-deprived and missing my friends and our parties so its kind of self indulgent? anyways not a single character in this is fully sober (even though none is Drunk either) but this is just a reminder to consume alcohol responsibly as we are not pirates and not fictional and hangovers are awful. stay hydrated, eat enough and maybe dont mix as much as they are doing in this fic  
> hope yall enjoy it <3

It’s almost unbelievable how much alcohol a ship can store, even one this big, especially when it flows so freely during long nights at sea. Ace never really got the taste for it (or at least not like the majority of the Whitebeard crew), but they keep filling his cup with rum or mulled wine. Every once in a while someone hands him tiny glasses of something a lot stronger and urges him to down it in one go. It all makes for a very dramatic gesture, which Ace appreciates more than the taste in itself and  _ certainly  _ more than the dizziness already installing itself in his brain. 

There have been enough parties since he joined the crew that he knows the routine by now - no one’s gonna notice if he ends up doing something embarrassing or if he passes out too early in the night (some people already laid down in the middle of the ruckus and are steadily snoring as the mess goes on). No one really cares because what matters is that they are together and they are having fun and there’s only the sea and family all around for kilometers to go. Ace can’t even tell anymore what they are celebrating, and it might as well be nothing, but it’s  _ nice _ . He’s never really liked the silence, always felt more alive surrounded by noise and by presence. He doesn’t really know anymore how he managed for so long alone in that tiny boat before finding his people, but it’s not like he needs to worry about going back to that reality.

The only true worries he has every time one of these parties come by are for a few things he knows (discovered, through very embarrassing experiences that are never going to be talked about again, Deuce, c’mon-) about himself: he’s extremely loose lipped when he’s drunk; he gets drunk more easily than advisable; and there are thoughts that he’s been thinking and that have become louder these past few months and that’s  _ dangerous _ , because-

Well,  _ because _ . He’s already drunk and he’s already been mumbling some things without noticing so Ace is not gonna think about it too hard, just to be sure. Just to be safe. He will keep his chill, at least while he’s inebriated. He’s got this. 

The sweet, spicy taste of the mulled wine warms his throat and helps a lot in keeping his mouth on check, on account that it stays wrapped around his cup. But his eyes are traitors and before he realizes he’s already searching through the crowd, because he’s weak for some things.

His eyes are way too blurry, but Marco is a clear, beautiful, downright heavenly vision. Ace finds him leaning on a pillar, lazy and at ease, and the man doesn’t even look drunk. There’s a blush high on his cheeks that Ace is just sure would be warm and soft to touch, but it might have been just the heat and the laughter and the excitement. Ace wants to- to touch, he means. He might be saying this outloud to Thatch, because there’s an elbow poking his ribs and someone chuckling heartily very close to his side. He pouts in response, feeling himself flustering all the way down his neck. It always makes his freckles more pronounced and he shivers a little, thinking it’s weird that he would feel shy now about this, considering he’s shirtless 24/7. 

Izou is then grabbing him by the shoulders and asking if he wants to try body shots - someone very close whistles at the suggestion, but Ace can’t figure out who it is. He also doesn’t have a single clue of what it means, but, damn, these are his people and they know how to have fun. He trusts his life to them, might as well trust this too. The Old Man, sloppily chugging a bottle of rum in his chair, laughs loudly, looks amused by the procession shoving one of the galley tables to the middle of the deck. Izou is pulling Ace’s cheek (it always reminds him a little bit of Luffy, but also it hurts, because he’s not rubber and Izou doesn’t take prisoners). “You’re so cute, Ace,” he says. “Our baby.” He’s cooing, pushing Ace’s chest down, a smile stretching lipstick covered lips into the expression of someone who knows very well what they do to people. Ace goes pliant, laying on his back right in the center of the table, which has been cleared out suspiciously fast. He might be pouting at Izou, whose grin doesn’t fade, only turns sweeter, but it’s honestly hard to say for sure, because he doesn’t feel his face that well anymore. It all feels tingly and means that he might be even worse at controlling his traitorously weak brain-to-mouth filter, but Izou seems to be merciful as he places a piece of lemon on Ace’s mouth.

Someone is petting his hair and it feels nice. He’s not biting into the fruit on his mouth, but the juice still graces his tongue, mixing not unpleasantly with the spices from the mulled wine. Ace is even less sure what’s going on by the second, but Thatch is smiling over Izou’s shoulder in that familiar half-mischief, half-comforting way of his. The fingers in his hair end up tangling in the absolute mess it’s become during the day and it pulls just a little too sharply. It’s a perfect excuse to close his eyes and let himself relax completely on top of that table, skin warm and thoughts trying unsuccessfully to stray from Marco - he’s afraid what he might do if he sees him right now, boneless and comfortable and uninhibited as he is.

He knows it’s Thatch placing a pinch of something (salt? Sugar?) on his chest because his fingertips are soft when they linger on the center of Ace’s chest. Thatch is one of the only members of the crew with hands that smooth, most of the others’ fingers hardened and roughed by years of carrying weapons and handling the ship’s ropes. Someone else drops a shot’s worth of hard liquor - or at least what Ace assumes is hard liquor - on the dip of his trachea. He’s kind of starting to understand what ‘body shot’ means, what might be the appeal of it and all, and decides that he might as well paint the picture, since he’s already there: as careful as a drunk man can be, he reaches with both arms over his head to grab the table edge, arching his back enough so that the hollow point of his throat deepens and the liquid doesn’t spill. He feels a hot surge of satisfaction when he hears a catcall from someone that sounds suspiciously like Haruta, and then they are all giggling - even Ace, although it makes his teeth stab the lemon wedge and some of the juice drip down his chin.

“Hey,” Thatch is calling out, and Ace knows who’s the target before he’s even done, because Thatch is a fucking traitor, apparently, “Marco, come here!,” and wants Ace to die on this table in front of the entire crew and their father too. He’s patting Ace’s shoulder like he’s not ruining his life right at this moment, like he has any right comforting Ace when he’s the very bringer of his demise (it is comforting, actually, but he can only focus on one emotion at once properly right now). Thatch must have also gotten the man’s attention successfully, because then Ace can see him gesturing someone over. “Wanna do the honors?,” and it’s a miracle Ace doesn’t spill anything with the shiver that rolls through his spine when he hears the familiar sound of Marco’s boots coming closer.

Haruta approaches, too - it’s already weird enough to see him upside down even without the added dizziness of the alcohol -, and ruffles his hair, looking halfway into getting smashed. He kisses his forehead and it’s almost enough to soothe his nerves.  _ Almost _ . It’s a very good thing that his lips are occupied by the lemon, because admitting he can recognize Marco just by the rhythm of his feet on the deck is more than a little terrifying, and he doesn’t trust himself not to confess these kinds of things at this point.

Marco’s voice is too close too soon, and so low it makes Ace shudder again, his hands tightening and relaxing on his grip of the table. “An honor, indeed, yoi,” and Ace is not looking, he is very pointedly  _ not looking _ , he does not want to look, because the image of Marco glowing under the moonlight and the various lamps they kept on for the party is still ingrained in his mind. He really doesn’t want to make things worse by witnessing Marco’s throat move from this angle when he speaks (his voice is huskier than normal, probably from the rowdiness of their commemorations, and this is so not fair, he can’t even  _ move  _ without spilling booze all over himself and he’s going to kill Thatch-). Ace shuts his eyes, still not looking, but it’s too late for him. He could have pinpointed the lilt of a smirk in Marco’s tone from his sleep, has actually done it before when he passed out in the galley one day and woke up knowing Marco had poked well intentioned fun at him.

Here’s the thing: Ace has seldom times in his life felt safer than he does when Marco puts his hands on him. When Marco bumps his shoulder while going about his day on the ship, when he squishes and rubs his cheeks to wake him up from an afternoon nap on deck, when he pushes him to the side on a fight to avoid a hit (knowledge that they both have Devil fruits overridden by instinct), when he grabs him by the wrist to make Ace follow him somewhere (as if he wouldn’t anyways), when he’s taking the rhythm of Ace’s pulse on a routine check-up - Marco’s hands are  _ safe _ , and they feel like home.

But they also make adrenaline run hotter in his veins than the fire of the Mera Mera, pull his center of gravity to whatever point of contact until Ace is blushing, and he doesn’t know what to do about this. It feels dangerous, and it makes Ace dangerous, tastes like spice and comfort and ruination all at the same time. He trusts Marco with his life, enough so that even tense he has no fear or hesitation about being all bared skin and eyes closed in front of him. Who he doesn’t trust is himself, enough so that his muscles tighten a fraction more and he doesn’t dare try to move, wills himself to breathe slower. 

Marco places his own hat on the top of his head. Ace’s heart skips a beat and he controls himself not to squirm. The edge covers his eyes in shadow where it’s balanced, and it makes it easier to keep his eyes closed. Marco hums low, more vibration than sound, a pleased little sound that Ace knows by heart, has heard a thousand times. He thought he had left his hat in the cabin, but his memories are difficult to unknot - it’s possible he might just have been comforted that it was safe because he left it with Marco earlier. Lemon covers his tongue, his teeth instinctively clenching.

Then he feels something wet and heavy and hot lapping at the center of his chest, and he’s opening his eyes and gazing down at the foreign sensation before he can think it through. He certainly  _ should  _ have thought it through, because Marco is staring right at him, serious and focused, the reach of Ace’s sight limited but enough for him to see the amusement in Marco's. A hand reaches and cradles his chin, keeping it up and still with a firm grip. It’s a blessing that the only person who might be able to notice how easily Ace’s body responds to Marco’s commanding nudges is Marco himself. Of course, it’s also a nightmare, because he can feel the grin on Marco’s lips where it touches his skin, salt or sugar or whatever having been licked off Ace’s chest.

He doesn’t gasp when Marco moves on to mouth at his throat and drink whatever devilish concoction they poured on him, thank you very much, but it’s close. Ace feels Marco’s tongue near his pulse ( _ shit _ , he can probably  _ taste _ how quick Ace’s heart is beating right now, can’t he?) and soon finds out that, damn him thrice, Marco is as thorough in party games as he is with about everything else in his life - which is  _ very _ . The heat from Marco’s mouth travels straight into Ace’s body and spreads out like he’s catching on fire. And he’s not, (he checks) but there’s still this warmth filling him from inside out, making his blood pump faster and his skin flush all the way down his chest. He focuses on breathing, because the alternative is panting and if he lets himself pant he will probably, seas forbid,  _ moan _ at how Marco is drinking the alcohol and apparently his sweat too. It should be gross, but it’s not, it feels really fucking nice and he cannot, absolutely  _ cannot _ , get a hard on right now. He closes his eyes, inhales deep.

The table creaks under Ace, the body over him leaning further, another hand reaching for the hair at Ace’s nape. He’s pretty sure that from under the hat no one else can see how Marco pulls it just so - and he’s never, ever going to live this down if he doesn’t pull himself together right this second. That’s easier said than done, but Marco is shielding him from the cold breeze, on top of the table (on top of  _ him _ , which is not what Ace needs to be thinking about right now). He’s carefully perched as to not touch Ace too much, and it’s very hard not feel a bit upset at it, or it would be if he could concentrate on something other than Marco’s body heat and the fingers in his hair. The pulling is exactly the encouragement he needs to untighten his jaw, letting Marco get closer until his forehead is nudging the hat out of place and Ace can feel his breathing. Marco reaches for the lemon wedge with his own mouth, seals his lips over Ace’s for what he’s sure is at least a fraction of second more than necessary to take the fruit for himself. He swiftly, competently swallows Ace’s groan before it becomes loud and embarrassing.

His tongue tastes like cinnamon and carnation from the mulled wine, but it’s out of Ace’s reach before he can even appreciate it over the citric aftertaste. He hopes he’s not trying to chase the contact, but the bigger issue is the sight awaiting him when he opens his eyes. He’s looking (he can’t stop looking) and that’s a common occurrence where Marco is involved, normally, but, by the Blues, how could Ace have ever stood a chance when Marco can just look like  _ that _ ? He’s biting on the lemon and there’s juice dripping down his chin before that evil ( _ talented _ ) tongue brings it fully inside his mouth and it’s- it’s fucked up, because he has to know exactly what he’s doing to Ace. It’s purposeful and he’s smiling at Ace, seemingly pleased with himself, and that’s just not fair. There’s fire curling deep into Ace’s gut, involving him from inside out, even if there’s no blue light coming from Marco (him not needing a Devil’s fruit to set Ace aflame is, somehow, worse). 

He releases his grip from the table edge, barely feeling the small indentations he left on it, the residual tension on his knuckles from holding something too tight. Ace holds his breath until Marco’s weight is gone from over him, because if he doesn’t, he will whine or say something absolutely stupid, and that’s really less than ideal when he’s already got through so much. When he can feel the wind hitting his slightly sticky chest, the relief in his exhale is just a little too sharp. Izou appears from behind Marco’s figure, a smile dancing on his lips as he approaches. Haruta is laughing from somewhere behind him, but it’s a happy, genuine sound. Izou puts a hand on Ace’s right knee, successfully steadying him while someone (Deuce, by the familiar squeeze to his shoulder) pushes him up until he’s sitting on top of the table. Marco reaches to fix Ace’s hat on the crown of his head.

People are clapping and shouting, but not at them - the music and dancing never really stopped around them, no matter how much Ace got lost in those few moments. Time didn’t stop just so Marco could touch, just so he could feel his skin, which is a weird realization to get to when he’s that overwhelmed. Someone asks  _ so, Ace, how was it for you _ and his voice cracks a bit around a “‘twas fun-”

Izou looks smug, looking at Ace while he pulls at the sash over at Marco’s waist and drags him closer. He hooks his chin over their First Commander’s shoulder and Marco chuckles heartily, “Fun is a word for it, alright,” is all he says. Ace is still warm all over and anyone who looks closely can probably tell what he has miraculously managed to hold in the entire night - that he’s kind of in love with Marco and would very much like to kiss him, again, for real this time, until they are both sober. Would like to keep kissing him in the morning and then some, would not mind burning out for it. He’s beautiful and Ace wants him to put his hands on him again, wants to touch him too, just wants Marco.

A hand is covering his mouth, most likely to keep him from saying all those things out loud, but it’s not his. “Hey, Captain,” is Deuce - wonderful, understanding Deuce, the one person in this ship he can still count on for helping him not make an ass out of himself, apparently - putting a warm cup of the wine in his hands. “You look like you’re really needing it.”

Ace only mumbles a quick  _ thanks, Deu _ before drinking from the cup, still comfortably seated on top of the table in the middle of the deck. When he chances a glance to Marco’s direction (can’t help it, really), the man is already staring at him, blinks when he notices Ace’s eyes. He licks his lips, probably without noticing, and Ace swallows heavily. “Yeah, I’m gonna go kiss him,” he says, aware that it’s out loud and very direct and exactly the thing that he was avoiding the entire night, but it feels right and he’s just tingly enough not to care. He can still feel the ghost of Marco’s touch, and he’s resolute now, so he stands up and goes.

Kissing Marco properly is a lot better than just having him drink off his skin, and the smile he gets to feel against his lips is worth it all, really.


End file.
